Some days I don’t like you.
The way you breathe oxygen into lungs
that would just as soon spit me out.
The way you step on backs
that support all you have ever done.
The way you side-eye innocent remarks
“Get out of MY hair?”
Yes, get out of YOUR hair…since your omnipresence
triggers trauma from years of being told
we’re a fucking nuisance.
But you wouldn’t KNOW that, would you?
Because you’ve never considered a view
from across the fence.
You’ve never noticed your own framework.
So, yes, get out of YOUR hair.
How dare you side-eye an apology.
It was for courtesy…not curtsy.
Like the drunken man bursting your bubble…
Buckle up, buttercup, it’s not all about you.
Even when that side-eye says it is.
Have another whiskey to drown the noise
that betroths you.
Maybe we'll quiet down.
Molly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw.